They were in a bar on the Rue Guenegaud.
"Are you alright, Kirill?"
He gave her a wan smile, which drooped down into a scowl once she turned back to sip her drink. No, he was not alright. He had to jack himself off twice in the morning. He was sexually frustrated, and it was making him grumpy. He'd never had to wait for sex, and here she was, looking like sex on legs in a dress that screamed fuck me. It was another shade of red, which seemed to be her colour. Blood red.
He downed the rest of the whisky and excused himself, heading to the men's room. When he was done, he splashed some water onto his face and took a glance in the mirror.
He looked like hell.
If this was what normal people did, he didn't know how they could stand it. Give it another day or so and his dick would explode. But he would endure.
She was like a bottle of very good wine. She just needed time.
He splashed more water on his face. It had a soothing effect. He dried himself up and went back out. He froze when he saw what was happening.
A very ardent patron was behind Michelle's chair, tapping her on the shoulder and eagerly gesticulating to her. Her eyes were flashing daggers, but he didn't seem to notice.
"I'm with someone," she said in a clipped voice, trying to turn back around.
But where was he, the man replied drunkenly, and he didn't seem to be doing a very good job at keeping a hold of such a beautiful girl, leaving her alone like that. He'd do a better job, he was sure. He went to put a hand on her shoulder.
Kirill's first instinct was to haul the asshole over the bar, but something stopped him. She can handle it, said a small voice in his head. So he stood and watched.
Michelle removed the hand firmly. "I said I'm with someone," she said in a louder, cross tone. "And even if I wasn't, I'm not interested."
She had her back to him, and he was still gabbling on about how she couldn't know if she was interested or not if she didn't give him a go, and what was the harm anyway…
He reached for her again, and she swatted his hand away. Then he grabbed the sleeve of her dress.
It ripped clean off.
Everyone in the bar stood still.
And then she backhanded him across the face.
The guy landed on the floor.
The bar burst out into applause.
The guy scrambled to his feet, swore a few times, and then shot out the door.
Michelle sat in shock. She looked half appalled, half pleased at what she'd done. Without acknowledging the applauding crowd, she stood up, picked up the sleeve that lay on the floor, and walked over to Kirill.
"Remind me not to piss you off," Kirill said in admiration.
"I don't usually lose my temper," she stuttered in explanation as their made their way out of the place, ignoring all looks directed their way. "But I really liked this dress."
She looked at the piece of material pitifully and sighed. Then she looked up at him.
"Why are you so happy?" she asked.
"I'm not," he said.
"Yes you are. You're grinning like mad."
"It's a lovely evening," was all he said as they walked back, hand in hand down the Seine.
It had been a beautiful day as well, he reflected. Well mostly beautiful. He had gone over to her hotel, and they had toured the city in a bright yellow bus. They visited the Champ d' Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Notre Dame Cathedral.
And then she'd gotten that idea.
"I'm tired of eating out," Michelle she said sleepily as she rested on his shoulder. They were on a one-hour cruise down the Seine. "Let's cook tonight."
His eyebrows shot up.
"Cook?"
"Yes. Surely you can."
He didn't say anything.
She got up, frowning at him. "You have never cooked?"
He took his time to think.
"I can use a toaster."
"That doesn't count."
He thought again.
"I can boil an egg."
"So you survive on boiled eggs?"
He shrugged. "I buy food. I don't have time to cook."
She was giving him an almost withering look.
"You mean to tell me you eat take out every single day?"
He looked at her and frowned, nodding. "What's so bad about that?"
She looked aghast.
"How do you stay fit?"
"I eat lots of meat."
She muttered under her breath.
"Well, I guess every guy has his weak spot," she finally said. She crawled back under his arm.
The boat finally pulled into the shore.
She hopped off impatiently, like she was on a mission.
"Where are we going?" he said as she pulled his arm.
"Markets."
They traipsed back to the Citadines loaded with brown paper bags.
When they entered her room, he sniffed the air.
"What's wrong?" she said as she put down the paper bags on the kitchen table.
Kirill sniffed again.
Men's perfume.
"Is there someone else here?" he said stiffly.
"Why do you ask?"
She just looked at him, her eyes wide with innocence.
"I smell men's perfume," he said in a flat voice.
"Ohhh," she said with a grin.
He looked so pissed, it was adorable.
"It's mine," she said sheepishly. "I sometimes wear it. I haven't since I came to Paris, though. I've used it to scent the bathroom."
"Why?" he frowned.
"It just smells better."
"Ah," he said, now feeling foolish.
She sniggered.
"What?" he said defensively.
"You really thought I was like, keeping some guy hidden in my kitchen cabinets or something while I go out with you during the day?"
He started busying himself with unpacking the bags. "No."
She looked at him and shook her head, biting back a smile.
"Alright then."
Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in front of the stove. A pot stood there, gently bubbling. He was sweating.
"What's the use of going to all this trouble?" he said as he wiped his palms on his trousers. "We could just go out to eat."
"Are you kidding me?" she said as she chopped up the tomatoes and tipped them into a bowl. "Home cooked meals always taste better. That's the beauty of staying in an apartment hotel. Having a kitchenette. It's just like home!"
He thought back to his apartment in Moscow. The stove there sat in permanent disuse.
"How's the pasta doing?"
He stared into the pot. "I'm not sure."
"I guess it's still early."
He nodded, and then swallowed.
She put down the knife. "I'm going to take a shower," she said suddenly. "I stink."
She started to make her way to her suitcase.
Kirill panicked. "What do I do?"
She was rummaging through her clothes. "Just wait until the pasta has boiled. Then turn the stove off."
"Alright."
I can manage that, he thought. Turn off stove. It's just one thing.
She headed towards the bathroom, clothes in hand.
"How long do I wait?" he said anxiously. "Five minutes? Eight minutes? Eleven minutes?"
"You'll just know," she said serenely.
"Oh. And if you can chop some onions, that would be great," she said before she slid the door closed.
Dammit.
He stood forlornly in front of the stove, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon.
This is bullshit, he thought sourly after five minutes. The water hadn't changed at all. It was making him edgy. You'll just know. There should be a precise way of doing this. Someone should have come up with a standard set of instructions on how to boil pasta by now.
You have to do something else too, a voice reminded him.
Ah, yes. Chop the onions.
He found them in a mesh bag. He cut it open. Two should do, he thought.
He peeled off the skins and started chopping.
He was so immersed in what he was doing he didn't see that the water had started to swirl. Then it started to froth and rise.
A hissing sound caught his attention. Water was coming over the sides of the pot.
"Shit!"
He dropped the knife.
He started pressing dials. Turning them. Nothing happened. The water kept boiling over. The smoke alarm went off.
Michelle ran out of the bathroom. A towel was wrapped around her body.
Calmly, she went over to the stove and turned the correct dial off. Then she took a dishcloth and moved the pot to another hob. Clutching the towel, she waved the cloth up and down in the direction of the smoke alarm.
It stopped beeping.
She looked at him and grinned. "Geez, you weren't kidding when you said you couldn't cook."
He looked so terribly clueless, Michelle thought. It was kind of adorable.
"It's okay, Kirill," she said as she picked up the knife. "I made the same mistakes when I learnt how to cook."
He took the knife from her and resumed chopping the onions. "I didn't think it would be so hard."
"It's not. You're just not used to it."
He put the knife down. His eyes were starting to tear.
"I think you've domesticated me."
He suddenly took in sight what she was wearing. Her hair was dripping wet.
"I haven't kissed you today," he said huskily.
She smiled and stepped forward, towards him.
"Then kiss me."
His lips were on her's in an instant, his arms around her slim body. Unfortunately, his eyes just wouldn't stop tearing.
He pulled apart from her, and she looked at him, surprised.
"Sorry, it's just…"
He stood there, blinking rapidly. "Jesus, my eyes hurt…"
Her eyes widened.
"Onions."
"What?" he said. His eyes were in agony.
"My eyes are burning!"
"It's the onions. Wash your hands, thoroughly, and then wash your face."
He did what she said, and the pain went away.
"Svyatoye der'mo!" he muttered as he poured the water over his face.
She gazed at him anxiously. "Are you okay?"
He nodded.
She sighed. "My dad has the same problem. He has to wear goggles when he cuts them."
He shook his head. "I don't know why people go to so much trouble."
She chuckled. "You'll see."
The dinner was good. More than good, actually. It was great. He wasn't quite convinced he would go through the pain of preparation again, but he had to admit, it tasted different from shop bought food. Good different.
And then they had a night out, again, and then some guy had hit on Michelle and she had slapped him silly.
All in all, it had been a very good day.
They made it back from the bar early, around ten pm.
"We're running out of things to do," Michelle said.
Kirill grinned. "I'm sure I'll think of something."
She buried her nose into his shirt. "I'm sure you will."
"You're not coming up, tonight?"
She sounded hopeful.
He looked at her. "Niet," he said gently.
She tried to protest, but he kissed her, silencing any objections. She went over to the lifts, and pressed her floor button.
"Sleep well, princess," he said as the elevator doors closed.